Child of the Large-Beaked Bird
The crows are up to no good,
tapping the tin roof like it’s
Miss Glover’s School for Awkward Girls,
all juke, jig and ja-ja.
My granddog doesn’t approve,
not the rooftop trapeze or the tomfoolery
in the garden, mischievous pecks
gouged around the scarecrow’s eyes.
They’re toying with me.
I’ve tried to bribe them—
fresh fruit, cat food, sequins,
propped myself nearby,
full lotus, trilling.
Why subject myself and this prized
pooch to the insufferable?
The indigenous say their ancestors
came to earth in the form of Crow.
I come to them, my sack of sorrows
laid open—perch on soil
my ancestors stole, sing dirt songs.
Earth Elegy
Ruddy foliage swirls in points of light,
I lean into a blustery autumn vortex.
A doe stands lengthways in the ryegrass,
doesn’t bother to camouflage—
she knows my scent,
stamps a hoof, blinks caramel eyes.
Clusters of thistle flit and tumble.
I chant the word woman
over and over, slip into a trance,
hands mapping a weathered body
that no longer requires rescue or conquest.
Something ancient shrieks
from my mouth, head thrown back.
A red-tailed responds, shares my sorrow.
Breezes whistle like wisps of memory
inside clusters of pin oak.
I look to the foothills for comfort,
listen to their whispers, wait for a fragrance
to ripple the holler, marvel
as afternoon falls like leaves,
into deeper color.
Granny Medicine
Perceptive, picky, granny forages
along fencerow and thicket,
her quilted pouch slung crossways,
arms tucked tight to ribs,
thwarting a bramble’s lash.
Crows attend her, gusting
their long-voweled language.
Spring winds poke wild fingers
through the trees, a weeping cherry
sheds pink petals along her path.
Beneath damp pines she plucks
needles and licorice root to soothe
a scratchy throat, stiff knuckles loosen
white oak bark for fever, a pinch
of wormwood to calm the nerves.
Along the creek’s muddy skin,
yellow root and comfrey she’ll mash
into salve, wild violets and red clay
for poultices, mullein and pink clover,
honey infused, to coat a cough.
Bundling sage into a burly stick,
she smudges the cabin, burns
mugwort shavings to call the spirits,
packs a ginseng chew between cheek
and gum to fight fatigue—waits.
Outside her window, crows cluster,
their shadows long, heads
bent low, as if in prayer,
as if they know, more than once,
she has stolen a body back from death.
Kari Gunter-Seymour’s latest poetry collection, Alone in the House of My Heart (2022), was published by Ohio University Swallow Press and is available here.
Learn more about Kari. on our Contributors’ Page.
(Photo: jm whalen/flickr.com/ CC BY 2.0)
- Three Poems by Kari Gunter-Seymour - April 27, 2023